We find ourselves in the hospital with a broken leg, it’s Saturday night, and the surgeon on duty, Dr. Eva Ursprung, is tired after an emergency operation. We joke about her name (“origin”). Her face darkens --- such were the dire specs of our second Bible Studies cliff hanger.
Relax. Dr. Ursprung keeps her cool and tweaks my hurt leg with her professional fingers. “It’s very swollen, your foot,” she remarks with her perfect Polish accent. “We can’t do much until the swelling recedes.”
My world falls apart. My brain, still awash in the stress hormones triggered by the accident, had floated in the delusion (this is so overwritten, sorry) that the man in the white coats would coat my broken parts in plaster stante pede and send me back to the Black Run Café, where my loutish friends are already waiting with highballs in one hand and ballpoints in the other, eager to leave obscene messages on the freshly paved landscape of my stricken parts. I explain myself to Dr. Ursprung and entourage. They keep their professional cool. “We rarely plaster these days,” her assistant replies, “98 point five percent of leg fractures receive surgery now.” Dr. Ursprung tweaks my foot some more, shakes her head, waves a good-bye with the x-ray pictures, and leaves. “We’ll have to find you a room,” Nurse Ernst remarks, while pushing my bed towards the elevator. Two minutes later I’ll find myself in a dark hospital room with another man who watches TV. We waive to each other. “Make yourself comfortable,” Ernst remarks helpfully.
I can’t sleep, I know. Ernst has left, and I inspect the night table next to the bed. There’s a copy of the New Testament in the top drawer, compliments of the Gideons. It’s in German, of course (we’re in the German speaking part of the Valais (“Wallis”)), in a modernized Luther translation.
Stay Tuned.
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| Dr. Ursprung, entourage, patient, on a Saturday night |
Relax. Dr. Ursprung keeps her cool and tweaks my hurt leg with her professional fingers. “It’s very swollen, your foot,” she remarks with her perfect Polish accent. “We can’t do much until the swelling recedes.”
My world falls apart. My brain, still awash in the stress hormones triggered by the accident, had floated in the delusion (this is so overwritten, sorry) that the man in the white coats would coat my broken parts in plaster stante pede and send me back to the Black Run Café, where my loutish friends are already waiting with highballs in one hand and ballpoints in the other, eager to leave obscene messages on the freshly paved landscape of my stricken parts. I explain myself to Dr. Ursprung and entourage. They keep their professional cool. “We rarely plaster these days,” her assistant replies, “98 point five percent of leg fractures receive surgery now.” Dr. Ursprung tweaks my foot some more, shakes her head, waves a good-bye with the x-ray pictures, and leaves. “We’ll have to find you a room,” Nurse Ernst remarks, while pushing my bed towards the elevator. Two minutes later I’ll find myself in a dark hospital room with another man who watches TV. We waive to each other. “Make yourself comfortable,” Ernst remarks helpfully.
I can’t sleep, I know. Ernst has left, and I inspect the night table next to the bed. There’s a copy of the New Testament in the top drawer, compliments of the Gideons. It’s in German, of course (we’re in the German speaking part of the Valais (“Wallis”)), in a modernized Luther translation.
Stay Tuned.
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